


Five Attempts The Orange Shock Blanket Made To Infiltrate 221b And The One Where It Finally Succeeded

by tibididim



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Slash, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibididim/pseuds/tibididim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt: <i>One piece of fanon I love is the Shock Blanket. John or Sherlock pull it out whenever they need it at home. But at the end of ASIP, Sherlock chucks it into the open window of a police car. I would love a 5+1 fic explaining how they now own a Shock Blanket!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Attempts The Orange Shock Blanket Made To Infiltrate 221b And The One Where It Finally Succeeded

1.

Take pictures of him. The nerve of it. Sherlock chucked the odious orange thing through the open window with all the callousness it deserved, and bloody well _moved on_.

 

2.

The thing on the doorstep iss large and irregular and squashy, wrapped up in a lot of brown paper and parcel tape; the postman's tried to stuff it through the letterbox but given up halfway through and so it hangs down dismally, the paper slightly ripped and soggy from the morning’s rain. All the better to show flashes of lurid orange.

Sherlock pulls it out. His name's written on it in handwriting that looks like that of no one on earth. It rather looks like seventeen different people have each block-capitalled one or two letters of his name and address. The shakiness suggests they were trying to suppress something. Probably laughter. And that's Lestrade who’s done the little hearts as a border; his hand is quite distinctive. And the extra line that declares the parcel is a “special delivery for the freak” needs no analysis.

Sherlock flips open the lid of next door’s bin and drops the parcel into it.

 

3.

He wakes up cold and sweaty in the early hours of the morning, orange fluttering out of the corners of his memory, a bright orange dream that disappears when he tried to focus on it.

He hates dreams, especially ones that make such a terrible effort to be _significant_.

 

4.

When John returns from work, he’s got something big and flat and very tidily wrapped in shiny paper, the ribbon so neatly tied it might as well say ‘gift wrapping service’ in neon letters.

“Sherlock, someone came up to me in the street just now and handed me this -” he begins, but Sherlock is already snatching it away and tearing off the paper; Mycroft always did love John Lewis, loved all those gigantic department stores that offered things like haberdashery and entire floors for hats.

‘This’ is, unsurprisingly, an overly large framed photograph of Sherlock. Wearing. The orange blanket.

Sherlock snarls and lifts it to smash against the wall but finds John’s arm in the way. John meets his eyes. Sherlock sighs, and John gently takes the picture out of his hand.

‘Fine,” Sherlock says. “Take it downstairs. Mrs Hudson’ll love it and I know for a fact she doesn’t have enough wall space to hang it anyway.”

John’s face looks both confused and pleased, like he doesn’t understand what’s going on but quite enjoys it; it’s an expression Sherlock has noticed on him before, one he thought interesting. John’s conflicts aren’t always visible; but it’s nice when they show up. It lets Sherlock think about John.

A text pings on Sherlock’s phone. He deletes it without reading it.

 

5.

It takes two hours longer than it should have to get John released from hospital. Eventually the nurse assigned to keep John from moving goes off shift, and Sherlock persuades her replacement that John’s actually the man from the next door bed.

The shock blanket the paramedics had covered him with was still crumpled on the floor.

He sits on the edge of the bed and touches John’s face and says, “I think next time you should do the exact opposite of whatever it is you feel most compelled to.”

John laughs, a little breathily - not very much, the cracked rib prevents it - says, “ I will if you will.”

Sherlock kicks the blanket underneath the bed as they leave.

 

(And one - )

It’s one of the ridiculously bitingly cold January evenings that London spits out every so often, and John is refusing to let Sherlock wrap their duvet around him while he works in the kitchen table. This is due to John’s entirely unreasonable assumption that Sherlock can’t dissect a bowlful of eyes without spilling a few juices, and some ridiculously bourgeois idea John has that bedclothes should stay on beds, and as a result Sherlock is operating in an environment that’s three and a half degrees too cold for optimal brain function.

He pulls back from the eyepiece of the microscope to change over to the next slide, and catches a bright trailing orange glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.

“Where did - ” he begins, turning to see John wrap the hideous thing around his shoulders, about to sit on the sofa.

John’s mouth twists. “Actually, the hospital thought it was yours. For some reason. They sent it ironed, even.”

Sherlock tries not to grimace; he knows John can see him trying because John’s smile gets bigger and so he turns back crossly to the eyeballs - which one was he up to again?

“Sherlock - these things are quite warm, you know.” John’s moved; he’s quite close beside him now. Sherlock refuses to look up.

“No, John.”

“You did say you were cold, didn’t you?”

“Not the point.” John really is right behind him; he can feel John’s breath warmly huffing over his ear. “Stop trying to see what I’m doing,” Sherlock mutters, but his hand’s refusing to turn the focus knob.

John kisses the top of Sherlock’s shoulder and wraps his arms around him. “Warmer, see.”

Sherlock breathes out. He lets himself be drawn up and pulled over to the sofa, where John arranges them, sprawled and entangled with Sherlock’s back against John’s front. He tips his head back. Not quite all their limbs seem to fit, but John’s arms are around him, and the awful orange blanket covers them both.


End file.
